


mirror mirror

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames uses his forging skills to change into Arthur. In front of a mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mirror mirror

  
It all starts off innocently enough. Well, as innocent as Eames can get, which isn't really saying much at all.

He's in a dream, one of his own, by himself, with the intention of practicing his forging. He dreams up several rooms with a full length mirror in each, picks one and walks up to the reflection of a buxom blonde with a low-cut dress and high heels. He smiles, and she smiles back at him. This is his easiest disguise; he doesn't need to think too hard to make up a woman that will have men tripping over themselves. If his personality slips up (which it never does; he is, of course, a professional) nobody notices because they're too busy looking elsewhere.

He tries something a little different. A shorter brunette, with more modest proportions. She looks bookish in his reflection, peering at him through white, thick-framed, glasses. He plucks the glasses off, making a satisfied noise when his vision goes appropriately blurry. He is always thorough.

He tries different men, next. Tall, imposing men who could pass as security guards; broad-shouldered men who exude the aura of success, perhaps a CEO. He makes up characters and executes their appearance, the way they carry themselves, the way they speak, all as if they're people that truly do exist, as if he's known them for years.

Somehow, that leads him to several different men dressed in suits. Tailored, three-piece suits. With slicked-back hair.

He doesn't mean to think of Arthur, and that's the truth. He never _means_ to think of Arthur but yet, he finds himself doing so on an extremely regular basis.

He doesn't mean to change into Arthur's skin. It's just that he doesn't quite stop himself, either.

Arthur in the mirror gives him a bewildered look. Eames decides that no, that doesn't work, and then Arthur gives him the usual, cool, stare that is devoid of emotion (except, rather often, irritation) and impossible to read. Eames stares at Arthur, who stares back and it feels like a staring competition for a moment, until Eames leans in to the reflection, almost close enough for his breath to fog on the mirror.

And then, in his reflection, Arthur pulls the silliest face Eames can manage.

He pulls away, laughing, and then suddenly stops, at the sight of Arthur laughing in the mirror. Arthur immediately stops, too.

 _This_ , he decides, is a mind fuck and a half. Clearing his throat (with Arthur's voice, he doesn't fail to notice), he looks at his reflection—at Arthur—and tentatively smiles.

Eames immediately smiles even more. Arthur's smile, he decides, is fucking _adorable_ and he must contrive a way to see the real thing. For now, he's curious at this strange opportunity to see Arthur in an entirely different way to what he is allowed to see. He makes faces for every emotion he can think of; happiness, sadness, fear, anger, shock, elation and more. He memorises the way Arthur looks for each, marvelling at the fact that he's seen more emotion on Arthur's face in the past five minutes than he has in the past few years of knowing him.

"You," he says to the mirror, in Arthur's voice, "Are _such_ an interesting man, darling."

He smirks at the mirror and Arthur smirks at him. This is the point where he comes undone.

The sight of Arthur smirking does something to him. Something that none of his other disguises have ever done, not even the scantly clad supermodel. He smirks at himself again and the effect is still the same. A shiver runs through him, and a voice at the back of his mind warns him that technically, he's turning himself on. He doesn't care.

This is no longer forging practice, he realises distantly, and hasn't been for a while. He doesn't care about that, either. If Arthur's appearance is up to him, he decides, it'd be a shameful waste to do nothing more than pull faces at a mirror.

He runs a hand through his hair—Arthur's hair—and messes it. Strands of hair fall about his face and for a moment, Eames seriously considers finding and confiscating all of Arthur's gel.

Eames decides the jacket needs to come off. For that matter, so does the vest, and the tie, too. It's some strange middle ground between undressing Arthur and watching him undress himself.

In the mirror, Arthur looks up at him, shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned. Eames doesn't remember getting carried away like this, but right now, that isn't important. All he cares about at this moment is having Arthur naked.

He knows that his mind is filling in a lot of blanks for him, like the firm muscle beneath Arthur's clothes, the black briefs he's wearing, and the size of the erection straining against the dark material. As an experienced forger, he does it all without conscious thought, drawing on what he knows about his subject, making reasonable assumptions.

He kicks off his shoes and strips his socks off (plain black, unlike Eames' own brown socks with green and orange stripes) and stands before the mirror, wearing nothing more than the black briefs that are beginning to feel far too constricting. He takes a deep breath and exhales, hooking his thumbs over the waistband and tugging the underwear off.

 _This is a dream._

Not that there is any doubt about it at this point, but Eames thinks that it's still a good thing to remind himself.

He strokes his cock experimentally, his gaze locked on Arthur's in the mirror, mouth just a little open, eyes wide.

 _Beautiful_ , the word comes unbidden to his mind and he thinks about it for a moment. Yes. Arthur is undeniably beautiful; immaculately dressed, all sharp angles and straight lines just like the buildings they see in his dreams. Eames embraces the thought, even though he knows Arthur would quite possibly kill him if he heard it.

"I," he says to the mirror, "Am beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. And you love this, Mister Eames."

And hearing Arthur's voice, a little breathless as his hand continues stroking, say Eames' name is beyond amazing. He stops for a moment, still as he stares at the reflection.

 _Shame?_ he thinks to himself, _what shame?_

"Eames," he moans, softly and in Arthur's voice. "Fuck," his voice is low, far too aroused to care about how strange this entire situation is.

"...Eames."

It's Arthur's voice again, but with two distinct differences; one, he no longer sounds like he's being fucked and two, it doesn't come from Eames.

"It's rude to intrude into other people's dreams, love," Eames says, immediately back in his own skin, fully clothed, his usual smirk on his face.

For a long moment, Arthur says nothing. Eames waits for the hiding of his life. Instead, when Arthur speaks again, he says as casually as he can manage, "I'm actually bigger than your… assumption of me. But the briefs? Have you been looking through my suitcases?"

Eames lets out a bewildered laugh. "Come again?"

"You can be inconveniently stupid when you want to be, Mister Eames," Arthur murmurs and the tone in his voice is so familiar that it makes Eames wonder just how long he's been there for.

The thought is put on hold indefinitely when Arthur crosses the room, from his place at the door, and pulls him into a kiss. It's hard and demanding, Arthur's fingers digging into Eames' shoulders. Their tongues slide against each other and Eames moans in approval, pulling Arthur closer.

"Bigger, you say?" Eames grins. "I thought I was quite generous in my estimate. Sure you're not exaggerating, darling?"

"Only one of us gets off on changing their appearance."

"I've still not worked out whether you're going to tell me off or not," Eames murmurs as he kisses down Arthur's neck.

With a quiet sigh, Arthur tips his head back to give him better access. "Believe me, I plan to. Later. But for now—"

Eames cuts him off with a kiss and gives him a predatory grin. "I'm pretty sure I've got that figured out already, love."

Arthur shakes his head, halfway between extremely irritated and genuinely amused. "If that is the case, Mister Eames, I'd like to know why you're still dressed."

Eames grins his best shit-eating grin and says, "Well, Arthur darling, if you don't like it, you'd better fix it."

Growling under his breath, Arthur pulls him close, biting Eames' neck and pushing the jacket off his shoulders. Arthur's fingers deftly undo the loosely knotted tie and Eames is spurred to action, unbuttoning the point man's jacket.

Undressing Arthur is even more enjoyable this time around, and anything Eames' forging skills can do feel empty and diminished when compared to the real thing. An interesting thing to think when in a dream. Eames decides that they'll need to do this again when they're not dreaming.

This time, Eames can feel Arthur responding to everything he does. The content sigh at the way Eames runs a hand through his gelled hair; the small twitch when his shirt is untucked and he feels Eames' hand on his bare skin; the way his grip suddenly tightens when his cock is massaged in torturously slow strokes through his trousers.

Of course, Arthur is just as good at reducing Eames to the exact same state and once they're both undressed, they're both far too aroused to think of anything but their need to get off, right now.

"Well, fuck me, you _are_ bigger than I expected," Eames comments, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's cock with a grin.

Arthur gives him an _I told you so_ look, and Eames grins, pinning him against the closest wall, taking hold of both of their erections and stroking. Arthur's moan may well be the sweetest sound he's ever heard. Arthur leans his head back against the wall, panting softly, one of his hands joining Eames', their movements jerky and uncoordinated. Eames leans forward, pressing a kiss to Arthur's parted lips, his free hand coming up to settle on Arthur's shoulder. They breathe each other, taste each other, _feel_ their proximity. _I must be dreaming_ , Eames thinks, and immediately laughs.

Arthur doesn't ask why—perhaps he doesn't need to. Their movements gradually become more synchronised and Arthur buries his face in the curve of Eames' neck as he nears climax, trying and failing to hold back the small sounds of pleasure that escape his throat, that Eames drinks in.

When Arthur releases, he does so with a low moan, right against Eames' ear. It's the final thing Eames needs to come himself and he holds Arthur close, kissing him hard.

When they pull apart, chests heaving for breath, Arthur sits on the floor and leans against the wall. Eames sits opposite him.

"Eames," the point man murmurs once his breathing has more or less returned to normal.

"Yes, love?"

"Next time, you _ask_."

Eames only notices the gun in Arthur's hand when it's pointed at his head.

*             *              *

  
They wake at roughly the same time. Eames sits up, blinking as he adjusts to reality, looking at Arthur do the same.

Their eyes meet and the next moment, Eames is leaning over Arthur's chair, smiling.

"So there'll be a next time."

Biting back the smile that threatens to touch his lips, Arthur shakes his head. "No, Mister Eames, that does _not_ count as asking. But you're welcome to try again."

x


End file.
